By Malena Hougen Patel
As I worked up some crocodile tears, we peeked out of the kitchen to scope the scene. What we saw made us pause.
When my husband and I brought our baby daughter home last September, it was a small affair. Just us, with our new daughter, in our new house, in our new neighborhood. We had 10 days of quiet family bliss, lounging in our underwear, dancing in the living room at 3am, binge-watching True Detective at noon, shutters tightly closed to the brightness of the day and the cacophony of the world.
But all that was shattered one crisp, sunny day in early October. The Mothers arrived.
We had been somewhat concerned. Both of our 65-year-old mothers, under the same roof. Would they get along? One, a disciplined blue blood from shabby American aristocracy, who preferred fitted linen pants and crisp white sheets, anorexia and hydrangeas, who had her hair set weekly by Francois, taught her daughters the importance of the right fork, and who only drank G&Ts.
The other, a native of Gujurat, India, who defied her parents by coming to America to study, who defied her sisters by never dying her hair (or really, washing it) and who defied nature by never wearing anything but polyester. Oh, and who defied any common sense by drinking only the sweetest of margaritas.
But beyond their cultural and cocktail differences, there was something else that worried us. Our mothers are both trailblazing women in their fields, with 2 PhDs and 3 master’s degrees between them. They are strong, good women who relish work and adventure–but neither takes pride in domestic drudgery.
But surely they could tie on the proverbial apron for a week to change my milk-stained sheets? Perhaps, we thought in our most hopeful moments, we should be concerned: would these two highly competitive yet vastly different women compete to see who could serve the exhausted new parents best? My head swam with images of having to choose between truffled mac and cheese and tikka masala on a nightly basis. My husband and I heatedly debated who we would let diaper Baby N first, and who would be more honored to fold her onsies. We were worried they would exhaust themselves in their rush to serve us. After all, they were no spring chickens. And so it was with open, if cautious, arms we welcomed both my mother and my mother-in-law from LAX that crisp sunny October day.
Margot, my mother, arrived first, alighting from the cab in her Kay Unger knit dress hugging her lithe figure, lipstick bright and perfect, hair helmeted. She cooed appropriately over the baby while discreetly assessing my figure, which I pathetically tried to camouflage with a belly band and loose tunic from (gulp) Chico’s.
Soon after, my mother-in-law Sita showed up, her inside-voice challenged greeting startling the baby from 50 yards away. She barreled through our front door, her compact 5-foot body swathed in a polyester sari and “well-loved” flip-flops, revealing pedicure-challenged toenails. I caught my mother’s short intake of breath. She glanced down at her own feet, safely ensconced in LL Bean travel moccasins, and seemed reassured that all was right in the world.
Margot, who was holding Baby N, got up to greet Sita. Sita gently took Baby N from Margot’s arms. Margot held on. Their eyes locked. My husband and I glanced at each other. Would they start to squabble over her? As we waited with bated breath, the two women simultaneously launched into a cascade of adoration for the baby.
We sighed with relief.
But then:
Margot (east coast Brahmin accent): You know, Sita, I saw a Times piece on a wonderful exhibit at LACMA.
Sita (thick, incomprehensible Gujuarti accent): I’m ready when you are.
Me: Oh, um, but there’s some laundry in the dryer…
Sita: And what about that Frank Lloyd Wright house I read about?
Margot: I heard it has marvelous gardens.
Me: Oh, um, but maybe you’d want to take the baby for a walk?
Sita: Nonsense! Newborns should not be taken from the house.
And with that, our fate was sealed. We had created a loud-talking, raucous-laughing, museum-hopping, grandchild-adoring, early-rising, non-cooking/non-cleaning/non-sheet-changing/non-dusting/non-diaper-changing cocktail-swilling 2-headed Beast. And that Beast ran our house for 3 days like it was a Hollywood Cocktail Party Invitational/Ladies-of-a Certain-Age Touring Company.
The next morning, they bustled into our bedroom at 6:30, fresh from a 3-mile jaunt around our neighborhood:
Margot: Rise and shine!
Me: Mom, we’ve been up all night with the baby. She’s not latching and…
Margot: I read about the most wonderful exhibit at MOCA in the Times this morning. They open at 11. Could you drive us?
Me: Mom, we’re a little tired…
Margot: Nonsense! I was never tired when I had children, and I was in graduate school.
Me: Maybe you can take the baby for a walk while we sleep?
Sita: No, no. Not good for her to leave the house. Margot, let’s go!
And so they headed off to LACMA, MOCA, Eames House. My husband and I sterilized bottles, flung together dinners, scrubbed lipstick stains off tea cups, and folded Baby N’s onsies, our resentment simmering.
The final straw came Saturday night.
During their morning walks, the Moms had met all sorts of neighbors, and being naturally outgoing and fond of cocktail parties, invited everyone over for a meet and greet. My husband and I could barely believe our eyes when we saw smartly dressed people strolling up our walk. We couldn’t see straight, much less talk coherently.
But by 7, Erik & Chip–from that cute Spanish bungalow on Gennesse–were sharing their Pimm’s Cup recipe. By 7:15, Julian and Abbie–they’re renovating the Tudor on Orange Grove–were wondering if they could use the oven to heat up their world famous shrimp dip. By 7:30, Tim and Carol, Francine and Cheryl were knocking back martinis.
As the evening wore on… and on… my husband and I decided to Take Back the Night. Our plan to bust up the party involved me having a breakdown in the middle of the living room, maybe flinging out the word lochia for good measure.
As I worked up some crocodile tears, we peeked out of the kitchen to scope the scene. What we saw made us pause.
Margot was wearing one of Sita’s saris, Sita was chatting with Chip about Shah Rukh Khan, and Baby N was being passed from neighbor to neighbor and looking as delighted as a 13-day-old baby can.
Frankly, Margot & Sita looked like a happily progressive post-menopausal inter-racial lesbian couple, gleefully showing off their little bi-racial bundle of joy.
We looked at each other, eyes wide. And started laughing–an exhausted, relieved, disbelieving, rollicking, braying, healing laugh.
It is my mother’s fate that her daughter is not the energetic go-getter she thought she raised, but not all is lost. Every now and then, when it’s 2pm and I’m still in my pajamas, I catch my daughter giving me a look, a look that says “Why are you still in your pajamas? LACMA closes in 2 hours!”
Oh, and Cheryl’s daughter babysits, Chip brought over a delicious lemon-roasted chicken, and Francine gets our mail when we travel.
Malena Hougen Patel is a writer and mother living in Los Angeles. You can follow her on twitter @malenahougen.